


Land of the Leal

by sailorgreywolf



Series: The Empty Throne [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-03
Updated: 2016-11-03
Packaged: 2018-08-28 21:22:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8463415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sailorgreywolf/pseuds/sailorgreywolf
Summary: As I mentioned on the first oneshot in this series, the initial idea for oneshots focused on the relationships between countries and their monarchs was for Elizabeth I and Mary Queen of Scots. Because of the unique relationship between the two of them, I think the way they relate to their countries is very interesting. I plan to write more of these, but after this I am going to expand beyond the United Kingdom. They will also not always be about romance in the strictest sense. 
The song paired with this oneshot is Land O' the Leal as performed by Andy Stewart
Mary was actually much harder to write than Elizabeth because the details of her life are so tragic. It was hard to decide which part of her reign to show. I opted not to show either of the murders that she was involved in, because I think that those familiar with her life will know how they occurred. I really wanted to focus on her internal life and her tumultuous relationship with her country instead of the scandal of it all. 
As on the last one, if you guess the next monarch and song I will write you a request





	

Scotland rarely walked the halls of Westminster Abbey. He knew that this was the place of his brother's remembrance. His royalty was buried elsewhere, many would wish to never rest in English soil. But, there were some of his stock that lay within these walls. The entire Stuart family was Scottish born, and belonged to him as much as they did to Arthur. But, he was not here to visit all of them; they had not favored him anyway. But, there was a problematic part of his own heart here as well.

She should have been buried on Scottish soil, not in the country that executed her. But, it had been her son's choice to bury her across a small alcove from her rival. After all of these years, he was still uncertain about how he felt when he came to this place and looked at this coffin. The likeness of the woman that decorated the top of the coffin was beautiful, just as she had been in life. The sculpture did not show the lines or strains of her years in captivity. She looked as fair and and young as she had been when he had last seen her at Loch Leven. He did not dare touch the stone, not this one, not the queen who lost his favor and ultimately, lost her life.  
_____________________________________________________________________________________

The wind was very cold, colder than she ever remembered it being before in the room at Fotheringhay castle. Elizabeth's men had granted her very little comfort in the past few months since Mary had been discovered and charged. She tried not to think of it. William Cecil had taken such perverse joy in showing her her own letter, endorsing the assassination of Elizabeth. He had looked like a cat that had finally pinned down the bird it planned to devour. He had been so glad to present her with her own words, so damning.

Now, she sat alone in a room barely lit by spare candles, no longer minding the damp and cold that seemed endemic to the castle. They said this castle was haunted by the ghosts of those that had died here. It was not difficult to believe. At night, she would summon memories of beautiful sunny France, so warm and so far away. Her beautiful, graceful childhood was a distant memory, but it was enough to keep her from freezing to death in the dreary wet of this abysmal country.

It would not matter soon anyway. The next morning she would face the executioner's axe. Unbelievably, Elizabeth had finally signed her death warrant. She had hoped that the memory of Elizabeth's own mother would still her hand. But, her hatred ran too deeply. The thought brought tears to her eyes, but she fought them back. No, she was not afraid of it. She would pray tonight and draw strength from faith. She would go to the Lord with a clear mind and a clean heart. She told herself she would go to the block with the strength of a saint in the color of a martyr.

Before she died, she had matters to set straight. She had a piece of parchment in front of her and a quill in her hand, but the words were a struggle. She would not write to her son; James had rejected her long ago. This letter was meant for her country, the one she had ruled not the one she had plotted for. For all her efforts, she had never so much as met England. It was Scotland that she owed an explanation to. She had not written to him during her entire confinement out of the fear that he would send back sharp condemnations. What could she say to him that would change anything that had come between them? But now, with the time of her mortality finite and defined, she had nothing left to stop herself. If he thought the worse of her tomorrow, then he would be cursing a ghost.

She pressed the tip of the quill to the parchment, drawing out the name she had not spoken or written for the entirety of her imprisonment. It felt strange to write it out again, "My dear Alistor," Her hands faltered as she thought of what to write. Her mind, so often distracted without stimulation in this purgatory, drifted back to the first time they had met, when she had still been young and foolish.

It had not been her choice to return to Scotland, though it was the land of her birth. France had been bright and bonny; she knew now that they had been the best years of her life. Francois had been just as young as she and sickly. But, all the same she had loved him. Beyond that, she had had every lavish desire she could want. The memories came back to her with the scent of French lavender and the taste of wine.

Leaving Paris for the last time had been difficult, leaving the life where she had been a glamorous queen, admired and respected. Aside from her mother's letters and blurry memories of her childhood, Mary knew little of Scotland. The only country she had met was France and he was tall, lithe, and golden as the sun. From what she had remembered from her childhood, her idea of Scotland was of an impossibly tall man with thick red hair and terrifying green eyes.

When she had arrived on the Scottish shore, it had been shocking to not see a lavish welcome party, with glorious horses draped in flowers and fine clothe. That was how royalty was received in France, with no expense or extravagance spared. But, her new kingdom was dreary and grey, with only a party of surly, bearded nobles to meet her. More than one of them, she remembered, had looked at her like she was an unwelcome guest, not the anointed monarch.

A single man had emerged from the crowd leading a white horse behind his own. He was tall, unkempt, and as red as any of them, but lacking the beard. His were the green eyes that she remembered from her childhood. When he offered the horse, good stock though it was, it was difficult not to be offended that there were no retainers, no glorious retinue. She mounted with a muttered, "Merci." but spent the rest of the journey in sulky silence. Scotland had occasionally given her warm smiles that she would tacitly ignore, even if they did improve the otherwise unbearable was, she had conceded to herself, not as terrifying as he had been when she was younger and maybe even charming in a rueful, brash sort of way.

As she rode and rain began to fall, a feeling of agonizing homesickness hit her. Mary did not want to be here in this unpleasant land with these stony, hairy men. She wanted to be home. The thought was frightening; Scotland was not home. Her brother belonged here, and she did not. Mary turned her head away from Scotland and stifled her tears for France.

She paused in her memories to notice that her quill had left a blot on the parchment. Mary decided not to try to get a new piece. No one had the sympathy to provide a dead woman with a new piece of parchment and she doubted Scotland would mind. He was not so careful that a single dot would offend him. She started the word that her pen had paused in the middle of again. She greeted him in the terms of a friend, though it was hard to say that they had ever been that.

But, then her words failed her. It had not been her intention to apologize. There were very few decisions that he had advised her against that she regretted. She could only conjure one to mind. It had been the decision of a naive girl with her ambitions south. that the women soon regretted and remedied rashly. He had given her wise, if not heated council against it, words she should have headed. So, it was to this matter that she turned her letter. If it was regret that he wanted, then she could provide it, if this if nothing else. She remembered their conversation and thought about it ruefully.  
_____________________________________________________________________________

They rode out into the country on one of the rare sunny days, Mary astride the horse Scotland had given her, and her new suitor Henry Stuart, Lord Darnley by her side on a British mare. He easily kept pace with her as a man of the nobility should. She did not ride as fast as she was capable of either. An easier trot allowed her to stare at the man on the horse. Dressed so gallantly he looked every inch the grandchild of Henry the Seventh. He was tall and well-built, without the rough masculinity that Scots seemed to pride themselves on. He was unendingly appealing, not just in appearance but in manner. He was kind and would speak to her of such lively subjects. Aside of Riccio, her dearest advisor, there had been no one for her to discuss poetry and song with. Darnley had discerning ear and knew the difference between a waltz and a volta.

Since Elizabeth had sent him with a gift of horses, bearing the letter than barred Mary from marrying a European prince, Mary could not bear to be parted from. She saw no reason to be either. It was her intention to marry soon to buffer herself from the ambition of the Protestant Scottish lords and this man was her perfect match. He had a claim to the English throne and marriage to him would give Mary further reason to oust the bastard Elizabeth from her throne. Besides that, he was an Englishman, as Elizabeth had demanded her groom be, handsome, and Catholic. It was rare that a royal woman be able to have discretion in her own marriage. Mary thought herself fortunate and clever. In searching for a suitor, she had found a man who was not greatly her senior, who was handsome and shared her faith. It could not be more perfect.

She had found it hard to understand the dour look her country had worn since Darnley had arrived, which seemed to deepen with every day the man remained. She had considered speaking to him about it, but his sentiment seemed shared by her half brother and most of the court. They would see that there was no changing her mind. She would marry Darnley whether they liked it or not.

They turned their horses and headed back toward the capital, and Darnley turned to her and said, "Your majesty rides very well." She felt herself blush to the roots of her dark hair. Many men had said the same, including her country when she had ridden out with him, but coming from this man's mouth it sounded so much more sincere. She suddenly felt like she could ride forever, even with the ever present grey clouds building on the horizon. But, as he smiled at her again, he spurred his horse and it galloped away. Mary was forced to do the same, and the ride became a gay race over the hills.

Mary soon overtook him and pulled her horse in front of his with a delighted giggle. Lord Darnley said, "Well, it seems you have bested me. Now I am your slave." He extended his arms and bowed in a gesture of mocking surrender that looked all the more ludicrous from his position on the horse. Mary let out another fit of laughter. He was so witty, it was impossible not to find him amusing.  
She replied, still laughing, "Then I command you to never leave me, Henry!"  
He swept another comical bow before saying, "Oui, your majesty."

His poor French accent made her laugh until her stomach hurt against her corset. They made their way back to the castle of Edinburgh, still jesting and laughing. Mary dismounted and took the man's arm, continuing to speak, "What is Elizabeth like? I have not had the chance to meet my royal cousin yet." The topic truly intrigued her. There were poems written about her English cousin's beauty and learning, and she wanted to know if there were truth in them. She had written to Elizabeth many times, expressing her sisterly feeling and asking to be named as heir if the other should die without children. But as of now, she had received nothing but promises of friendship.

Darnley hesitated, "She is the most beautiful woman in England." Mary put his hand to her chest in a gesture of shock, "More beautiful than me?" He quickly said, "We are not in England, your majesty. She is the sun of her court and you are the moon of yours."  
It was a sweet answer and it made her smile and blush again. But, her curiosity was not satisfied, "Is she as tall as me?"  
He shook his head, "She is not."

Mary was satisfied with this. Surely it was striking to be tall. But, there was another subject that concerned her just as much, "Is it true that she is still unmarried?" It was strange, she thought. She was younger than Elizabeth by many years and she had been married and widowed once. If she was as lovely as the poets said, then she should have no trouble finding a husband. Darnley was more cautious in his answer to this, realizing how sensitive the marriage of the English queen was, "She does not seek a husband. When asked, she says that she is married to her country."

He laughed like this was another find joke or an exaggeration, but Mary thought otherwise. She let her hand fall off of Darnley's arm as she thought about it. Was it possible that Elizabeth had chosen the personification of her country above all of her suitors? Would that not be a strange arrangement? For all the charm Scotland possessed, she had never considered taking him as a lover. Though, now she considered it, he was as a handsome as Darnley.

Just as this thought occurred to her, she heard a familiar, course voice call her name, "Mary, we need to speak." Scotland looked harder than usual with the red of rage obvious in his cheeks. She did not want to leave the comfort of Darnley's company for vastly inferior comfort. But, he was her country, and he was not as easily commanded as Francis.

Mary made a quick curtsey to Darnley, not because he was her superior, but as a sign of love, before she turned and walked towards her country. Scotland was holding open the door to a small chamber. He was clearly hoping for a private conversation. Mary walked through the door, allowing him to command her for now. Scotland was impudent though, using his lords to intimidate his monarch. Now, it was hard to say what he wanted, but it seemed important. Once she entered the room, he closed the door before saying, "What are your intentions with this man?"

He didn't speak Darnley's name, but he did not need to. His meaning was easy enough to understand. Mary drew herself up in indignant rage. Her height matched his and their eyes were level. If she chose to court Darnley, what business was it of his? She was a queen and that gave her the right to choose. She answered, trying with every fiber of herself to seem to be a queen, "I intend to marry him."

Dark, dangerous rage flashed across Scotland's face. His jaw clenched and his green eyes became again the hard impassive glass of Mary's earliest memories. He responded, his voice straining against the cruder parts of his nature, "He is the worst of your choices." There were profanities he would rather be using, she could see that. But, she would not endure these slights. She had thought about the politics of it as well as her own feelings.  
She suspected he would find the politics far more compelling, so she said, "He is my equal and he has a claim to the English throne. If God grants us a son when we are married, then he will inherit the English throne."

She couldn't help but feel proud of herself. Like Elizabeth, she could play the politics of men. But, this fine point did little to move Scotland, who gave a sound of frustrated exasperation. He said, his tone rising, "Ay, he would. But, you may lose your crown for it." His words were blunter than she expected. He was not trying to observe tact or niceties. But, she wanted to yell how wrong he was, but she was a queen and had more dignity.  
She screwed up her face and said, "He is my choice, why should anyone doubt it?"

The other rubbed his temple with his gloved hand, "Mary, it is not that simple. He is English and Catholic. I will not have him set above my lords." Mary laughed ruefully. It was always the nobles. They bickered like boys badly in need of a mother's discipline, and, for some reason, Scotland abided them. When she was queen of France, she had not had to deal with the whims of nobles.

His objections were absurd anyway. Naturally Darnley was a Catholic. She would entertain no suitor who did not share her conviction about the Roman Church. She countered, "Yes, he is Catholic as I am a Catholic." She swore she could hear her country growl, his composure failing him.  
Now, there was real anger in his reply and his accent became thicker, "I am not a Catholic country! Mr. Knox preaches against your faith every day!"

She had heard about the so-called reformer and his tirades. He did not frighten her with his vitriol and heresies. For all he said, she did not impose her religion on anyone. She maintained her composure, "Mr. Knox, is a hypocrite. I doubt his young wife benefits from his reforms."  
Scotland waved her away like an irritating fly, "Ay, that he may be, but he is a hypocrite the people listen to. If he calls for your destruction, how long do you think you would continue to reign."

Without even pausing to choose her words, Mary countered, "Then there is even more reason for me to have a strong Catholic ally. And I love him." She returned to her last point because it was the most persuasive. She did not want to marry the man for his title or his riches, though they both were alluring. Scotland took a step forward and his queen took a reflexive step backwards.

She felt her heart flutter for a moment, at this distant her country looked almost handsome. It was as though the sky had cleared and she was seeing him for the first time. But, then he opened his mouth and he became a storm again, "Love is for villagers and poets. You are a monarch. You cannot decide for your own self-interest."  
She met his eyes again and refuted, "If you know so well, who would you have me marry? All the princes of Europe are barred to me unless we want war with England."

For a moment, he was lost for words before he finally said, "You do not have to marry a prince." She let out a short laugh at the absurdity of the idea. She was a woman ruling alone among powerful men. A husband was essential.  
Her reply was swift, "I cannot rule alone."  
He snapped back, "Elizabeth does!"

Mary let out another laugh, but there was no joy in this one. She couldn't quite believe that he dared to compare her to the English queen. Her own temper inflamed again, she said, "Is that what you want, Allistor? Should I spurn all offers of marriage and prance around my court like that bastard, claiming I'm a virgin while I mount my master of horse? Should I say that I've married you?"  
Before she could wittily claim that she could do none of that, he said, "Yes!"

She was shocking into silence by his reply. His green eyes looked like nothing she had ever seen before; they had a longing she had not thought him capable of. The refute she had carefully planned fell from her tongue, sounding deflated as she said them, "Well, I will not. I am a queen and I will choose my king."  
The red head gave a nod that seemed rather sardonic, "You're right. He will be your king. If he is a true Englishman, he will not be content being king consort."

Mary shook her head; she knew Darnley better than a man who had never so much as spoke to him. She said, "You know nothing about him."  
The other scoffed, "I know my brother. He's always wanted my land, and all his people share that longing from Longshanks to Elizabeth. I promise you this: your fine English gentleman will be no different."

Mary turned to the door, ready to end this conversation and return to company that did not question her decisions, but she couldn't leave without having the last word, "I will marry Henry, and you will see how well we rule together."  
_________________________________________________________________________________________

"Mary, open this door!" Her husband's drunken slur came from the other side of the wooden door, accompanied by the sound of his fists against it. James, swaddled in his crib next to Mary's bed, stirred and began to cry. She longed to press both of her hands against her ears and drown out the noise of both the baby and her angry husband. He came back like this more often than not, stinking of whisky and whores. The rumors were that the whores were not all female, but Mary tried to shut her ears against those too.

As James's bawling raised an octave, Mary climbed out of bed and walked over to the crib, pulling her dressing gown around herself as she did so. To try and calm him, she took the squalling baby into her army. He continued to scream as Darnley beat unevenly against the door, continuing to shout and taunt, "Come, Mary, let your loving husband in."  
There was no pause before he said, "Woman, my bed needs warming."

Trying to protect his ears from the vile words of his father, she placed her her hand over James's ears. At the same time, she stepped backwards toward a small side table where a knife lay, meant for her own defense. He no longer had a key to her chambers, but if he managed to break the door off its hinges, she would be able to kill him before he could rape her. She curled her hand around the handle of the blade and told herself this was how it had to be. Even God would forgive her if she committed murder to protect her own sanctity.

The insulting fit continued outside of the door, "Open this door. Don't you want another baby in your belly? James could still die, y-" Whatever he was about to say was abruptly cut off by a loud thump followed by silence. Mary lowered the knife she had been pointing at the door and edged closer. Perhaps this was only a break and he would continue again.

But there was an intriguing, God-sent silence. Taking a deep breath, she deposited James back in his cradle. He was still crying, but it was not as loud. Overcome with curiosity, she turned the key in her door and pushed it open only far enough to see what was going on outside. Darnley was pinned against the wall by the much taller Scotland, who was holding the man by the shoulders. The mortal was still rambling, "Your heir is a lie. That child was whelped by a papist dwarf."

Scotland slammed him against the wall again, eliciting a whimper from the man, before saying, "You are drunk, my lord." He pronounced the title with so much spite that it sounded like an insult.  
The Englishman struggled vainly against the strong hands holding him, "I am your majesty, and you should bow to me!"  
Scotland leaned close to him and Mary could see Darnley recoil as the other said, "I do not bow to English shite."

With a single, surprisingly graceful movement, the country threw the man from him, saying, "Your majesty has other quarters." The whisky doing nothing to steady him, Darnley fell onto the stone floor, his jewelry clattering as he hit. With the appearance of a man attempting to swim on land, He turned himself back over and surveyed the scene in front of him.

It was then that he noticed Mary leaning out of her door. He smiled as though he had not just been abusing her, "Dear wife, save me from this savage Scotsman!" Mary looked from her husband, messy and half-dressed on the floor to Scotland, who was standing over him looked like a Saxon warrior in his rage. There was a clear choice and she understood it well enough. She simply nodded toward her country, who took the permission gladly. He stepped forward and kicked Darnley once more in the ribs.

The mortal howled in pain before struggling to his feet and scurrying out of the room like a rat. Only once he was gone did Scotland turn to his queen and say, "Are you well?"

She shrugged, not knowing the honest answer. He has been right about her husband, right about the rebellion that had claimed the life of poor little Riccio. Yet, she could not even find joy in spite to admit it to him. He looked genuinely concerned, so she said, "You may enter my bed chamber if you wish." He gladly took her invitation.

As soon as he entered the room, his eyes lighted upon the crying baby James. Like a concerned father, he rushed over and scooped the baby into his arms. James quieted as Scotland rocked him and sang a soft lullaby in a Gaelic language that Mary could not understand. She was transfixed by the sight of him being so tender and the tenor of his voice. It was pleasing and deep, his accent seeming to match with the language.

James fell silent within minutes and Mary was shocked once again. It was usually impossible to calm the baby even for his wet-nurses. His crying subsided and he lulled to sleep. Scotland seemed to have a magic touch that pacified the child. Still surprised, she asked, "How did you do that?"  
He smiled, still looking down at baby James and said, "Arthur was a terrible baby, and this always calmed him."

He spoke the words with a tone that she had heard him use rarely, and never in the context of his brother. There was something so striking about it, so unusual. The thought crossed her mind as Scotland placed James gently in his cradle, that he would be a good father despite his hard edges. Perhaps it was better this way, since James's father was unfit to raise him. But, the thought brought her mind to back to the most worrying subject at hand.

Her husband had been chased away for the night, but that would not keep him at bay for long. He was a useless rake, and had been since the night of their wedding. He had hidden his nature well until they were bound to each other, and now he was running around the court without shame. She would grant him no powers but the title of king consort for fear of what he would do with them. But, he had crossed a new line tonight in speaking about the death of her child. It was hard to guess whether he was desperate enough to try to harm their child.

She said, sinking into a chair, "He will go whoring again now that I've turned him away." They both knew it was true, but she meant to say more. The words stuck in her throat. He had been right about her husband from the first day, but it was too hard to say it.  
He seemed to understand her meaning because he said, "Ay, I expect he will. I wish for your sake that he would not."

There was an unspoken regret that he wished his insight into her marriage had not been so correct. She felt tears stinging the corners of her. It would go on, she knew, and she would endure it for her son. But, she was a queen, not meant for such misery. The drops of water rolled down her cheeks, as she said, "I cannot stop him from doing as he pleases."

It was the admission that she feared the most. Though she was queen, her own husband lay outside the scope of her control. She placed one hand over her mouth to stop the sound of sobs if they threatened to escape. Scotland said, sharp as always, "You could divorce him and send him back to England." Mary did not know whether to be offended by the suggestion. It was simply impossible take that advice.  
She said, sounding less commanding than she wanted to, "My church does not allow divorce."

Being certain not to raise his voice for fear of waking the baby again, he snapped back, "This is a Protestant country. My Lords are Protestant. You may do what you want." She shook her head. The suggestion was not even worth considering.  
She said, feeling two more tears run down her cheek, "I cannot abandon my conscience for-"  
He interrupted, his voice quiet but forceful, "For what? God will not condemn you for separating yourself from that cunt!"

She rose to her feet, holding herself like a queen again, "I will not abandon my church."  
He shrugged in exasperation, irritated by her true conviction, "Then annul the marriage."  
She countered, "If I do that, then James will be a bastard."  
Scotland sighed, "Then what are you going to do?"

Mary had to ponder the question for a moment. The situation could not go on as it was, not with the way Darnley resented his own son. But, there were very few options left to her. Thinking out loud, she said, "I will write to Bothwell." He was the best option, the earl who had offered his help to her before. He was also a Scotsman, unlike her husband, so he would be a more palatable choice than her husband.  
To her surprise, her country snarled back, "What do you want with him? He is a thug."

The criticism was not right, and Mary objected to it. Bothwell was course, certainly, but he was useful. He was willing to quarrel with other nobles for Mary's sake. His army had been instrumental in dealing with the rebellious lords who had murdered Riccio. He had to be the answer now. She knew he would come to her as quickly as possible and protect her from her raging husband. He might even do more, but she dare not let the thought enter her mind. She replied, "I am writing to him for protection."

Scotland shook his head again, like he didn't believe her, though her answer had been sincere. He finally said, "That man will do nothing for free. He wants you." His tone had an underlying vulgarity that she understood. But, the thought was offensive. Before she could object loudly to the idea that Bothwell wanted carnal benefits for his assistance, Scotland said, "Mary, do not make another mistake with him. Be my queen, be a mother to James."

He stepped forward and kneeled in front of her, clasping her hands in both of his own. His skin was warmer, far warmer than she expected. She met his eyes and the look in them shook her; he was looking at her like she was something fragile. She did not feel like a monarch, she felt like a little girl, confused and alone. Without her permission, he pulled her into a hug. In his arms, she felt like the last of her composure breaking. She sobbed against his shoulder as he said, comforting her as he had comforted James, "All will be well, Mary. Your son needs you and so do I."  
______________________________________________________________________

Her quill stopped again after spelling out how much she regretted her marriage to Darnley. She had often wondered while she spent empty hours embroidering in isolation if her life would have been different if she had accepted Scotland's initial offer and remained only the queen of Scotland. In the middle of long days spent on repetitive tasks, she would think of Allistor singing to her baby and rocking him. If she had just stayed there, he could have been a husband to her and a father to James.

But, that choice could not have been feasible. Even without her letter, Bothwell's charm and ambition would have been impossible to resist. He had been capable of making murder sound rational and adultery sound like love. What chance had she stood against the whims of a man like that?

She laid her quill aside and stood up. She walked around the large empty room as she thought. The last time she had seen Scotland was in Loch Leven, and the man had not spoken to her. Mary had been presented with the terms of her own abdication, and he had raised no objection. He had looked away as she signed it. She remembered the look of resignation on his face when he had left her bedroom, in the full knowledge that she was no longer his queen.

Thinking back on her mistakes as a monarch, it was difficult to say that she would have done any differently from that night. But, those decisions had left her here with no crown or husband. And yet, despite the desperate condition she was in, the only regret that remained was that she had trusted in her cousin's protestations of friendship. She could have fled to bonny France instead. Perhaps if she had, it would have been possible to acquire an army and reinvade Scotland and seen her country again.

But, now that speculation was pointless. She returned to the letter. There was little more she could say to him, whatever love had been between them had been lost long ago. Mary ended the letter the only way that seemed appropriate, "Do not mourn me, for I will go to my death as a martyr. For my sake, look after James. He is the future King and the only legacy I leave. Do not let him forget that his mother loved him. Adieu, Mary R."

**Author's Note:**

> As I mentioned on the first oneshot in this series, the initial idea for oneshots focused on the relationships between countries and their monarchs was for Elizabeth I and Mary Queen of Scots. Because of the unique relationship between the two of them, I think the way they relate to their countries is very interesting. I plan to write more of these, but after this I am going to expand beyond the United Kingdom. They will also not always be about romance in the strictest sense. 
> 
> The song paired with this oneshot is Land O' the Leal as performed by Andy Stewart
> 
> Mary was actually much harder to write than Elizabeth because the details of her life are so tragic. It was hard to decide which part of her reign to show. I opted not to show either of the murders that she was involved in, because I think that those familiar with her life will know how they occurred. I really wanted to focus on her internal life and her tumultuous relationship with her country instead of the scandal of it all. 
> 
> As on the last one, if you guess the next monarch and song I will write you a request


End file.
